


The Only Thing (You Absolutely Have To Know)

by Arsenic



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Library, Canonical Character Death, Cock Rings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern Thedas, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Exchange, Rope Bondage, Sex Work, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24564202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Ferelden is one of the few countries in Thedas that will grant political asylum to those from the Imperium, despite the fact that they're not all that keen on mages.  At all.  Dorian's a new refugee with a set of skill nobody in Ferelden values.  At least the library two blocks down treats him like a human being, despite being run by the largest Qunari in all of existence.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 87
Kudos: 341
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	The Only Thing (You Absolutely Have To Know)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tentacledicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentacledicks/gifts).



> Huge thanks to my two betas who looked at completely different parts of this story and helped make sure it was acceptable for public viewing. All remaining mistakes are probably because I ignored someone.
> 
> Recip: Hi, I love you? Also, we might be long lost twins? Like, just consider the possibility. In any case, thanks for this prompt, I enjoyed the hell out of writing it.
> 
> Mods: thanks, for the...uh, I think this is my third or fourth year doing this, so, many years of running this challenge smoothly.

_"The only thing that you absolutely have to know, is the location of the library."_

-Albert Einstein

* * *

There weren’t many countries that would grant asylum for refugees from Tevinter, or at least, non-elven refugees. It was always something of a mystery to Dorian that Ferelden was one of them, given its ardent hatred of mages, but when his petition was granted, Dorian wasn’t in a situation to be picky about _who_ took him in, so long as someone did.

Refugee processing was incredibly well-organized in Ferelden, despite the outsized numbers of refugees it tended to allow inside its borders. Dorian had a case worker assigned to him by the government, who could help him navigate the paperwork necessary to work his way toward citizenship. Lace Harding was forthright and free with her smiles. Dorian told himself not to fear what might lie behind her seeming sincerity.

He was often bad about listening to himself.

Refugees who required it could get a bed at a shelter for as long as was needed. Breakfast and dinner were available in exchange for chores. Dorian thought he could have managed all right for himself if not for the fact that he was a Tevinter national, and worse, clearly a mage. A mere inquiry as to where the privy might be made it startlingly evident that most of the other refugees there were inclined to either hate or fear him. Neither one was likely to end well. 

Compounding things, Dorian wasn’t stupid enough to use magic in self-defense. Even if anyone believed him that it had been self-defense, a questionable prospect at best, it would get him either deported, or made Tranquil. In the first instance, he had nowhere else to go. Dorian would prefer death over the second. He hadn’t escaped his father’s attempts to scour who Dorian was from his very self to have someone else do it.

He stayed in the shelter one night out of sheer desperation, and lack of time to figure out a better solution. He couldn’t sleep, too aware of the glances thrown his way, the fact that when he had returned to his assigned bed after brushing his teeth and washing his face, all of the bedding was missing.

He spent his first full day walking as much of the city as he could manage, marking buildings that might be easy to access after dark (schools and places of worship, mostly), and doing his best to scout any abandoned or derelict buildings. Dorian got the sense he hadn’t found the right part of town for those.

Despite the warm fleece Felix had found and packed for him, the day was chilly, and the night dipped down into frosty. He tucked himself into a janitor’s closet in one of the schools he’d found and started going through the brochures Harding had given him. They covered topics such as how to look for jobs, interviewing and resume tips, places to build community, and other basics for creating a life out of nothing.

He fell asleep while scouring a map of the city, and woke to a kick to the ribs. Silently, he cursed himself. He’d meant to set charms to keep from getting caught. The janitor, who was wearing rather considerable boots, said, “Out, unless you want to be reported.”

Dorian really, really, did not want to be reported.

* * *

_Two Months Later_

Dorian was starving. Literally. He was trying to remember when he’d last had a meal. He’d come to the park near the small theater that showed mostly indie pictures, because it had clean water fountains and he’d hoped hydrating would help with the fact that he was dizzy and nauseated. It hadn’t, though, which meant that food was a necessity.

In a place where magic was, at best, suspect, nobody needed a mage or a magical theoretician. Dorian had managed to get shift work here and there. Dishwashing, inventory stocking, anything that kept him out of the eyes of customers. And when someone who wasn’t from Tevinter came along, he was always the first to be let go.

His last position had given him a severance check about a week ago, and the money was gone. Dorian had been prioritizing shelter, and had managed to rent a room at a boarding house. It was neither clean, nor particularly private, but it had four walls and a roof, and it was an address to give on his job applications.

Rent was due in a couple of weeks, though, and who knew if he’d have a job again by then. One problem at a time. Food. Right.

There was a grocery a few blocks over that threw out packaged sandwiches past their expiration date. He just had to get himself there. He was busy working up the energy for the walk, when a man sat next to him on the bench he was occupying and asked, “How much to fuck your pretty ‘Vint mouth real rough-like?”

It wasn’t the first proposition for sex-employment Dorian had encountered. Sex work of all kinds was perfectly legal in Ferelden, so long as you were regularly tested and reported the income. And evidently, more than a few Ferelden men had long considered what it would be like to knock a Tevinter mage around a bit.

Previously, Dorian had turned them down, because, while he was perfectly interested in both sex with men, and even an edge of pain, he wanted the other person to care if he could get up afterward. And because he had promised himself that once he escaped the Imperium, sex wouldn’t just be another transaction for him.

His romantic notions weren’t feeding him. And they sure as the Fade wouldn’t keep him from freezing to death. Dorian looked over at the man. He wasn’t particularly bad looking, just sort of plain, in a middle-aged way. Having no idea what the going rate was, Dorian gambled on the exoticness of what he was offering, and named his price at about a fourth of his rent.

They guy didn’t even blink, which told Dorian he’d probably undersold himself. He’d do better the next time.

* * *

A month and a half into his foray into sex work, Dorian had a set fee table and had scraped enough together for a shabby but private one room apartment. Harding had helped him with thrifting a bed, as well as the linens for it, and some kitchen basics. He’d found a good second-hand winter coat, and a couple of outfits that worked for peddling his wares, as it were. 

Dorian was still stuck with the burner phone Felix had acquired and packed for him, paying for minute allotments. He missed the smartphone he’d left at home out of necessity, the uncertainty that he could disable all the tracking charms on it and devices within it. His lack of access to information, though, was crippling.

He needed guidance in a number of areas. Both washing machines and dryers were more complicated than he would have expected. He didn’t know any basic recipes, or cooking basics in order to create them. And he missed books, desperately.

There was a library a few blocks over from where he lived, in a slightly more expensive area, but not by much. Dorian didn’t like going into enclosed spaces with an unknown number of other people in Ferelden, it made his skin crawl. Eventually, though, his need for information overcame that discomfort. He loped into the library on a mid-week afternoon, thinking perhaps it would be quieter then. Most of his current bruises were on his torso and legs, but there was one on his chin, and it took effort to lower the hood on his coat. He was conspicious enough without appearing as if he were up to no good.

The library was warm in a way he couldn’t afford to make his apartment, and for a moment all he could do was stand in the heat and let it soak into him. He took the time to map out the space. In the far left corner there was a children’s area, filled with building blocks and bean bags, and currently, a number of children listening to a dwarf read them a story with great passion.

The left corner closest to him was a sort of reading area, with couches and some tables and chairs, as well as a little nook with coffee and tea and the sign, “drop us some change for the beans and leaves, if you can” above the disposable cups and a plastic bowl.

To his right was the information and reference desk, at which a sharp looking man was sitting. Dorian blinked. Unless he missed his guess, the man was soporati, at least by birth. He moved his gaze quickly. Fereldens hated mages in general, and Tevinter mages in particular, largely out of fear. Soporati hated Dorian’s class due to tangible mistreatment. Either way, Dorian was giving the other man a wide berth.

The back right hand corner held a bank of computers, with the rest of the space filled with bookshelves, organized in Elwin Code, which was relatively simple, if Dorian was remembering correctly. Once he set himself to it, he was quickly able to find a cookbook for beginners, as well as a few books for entertainment. Tucking them under his arm, he headed toward the computers. Two of the four were open. Taking one, he did a quick search for simple laundry instructions, and then used some of the scrap paper next to the keyboard, and a pencil from the holder in between the computers, to jot a few notes for himself.

Finishing up, he took a deep breath, and hoped against hope that someone had taken over for the soporati in the time that Dorian had been browsing, and he could get a library card, check out the books, and be on his way.

He got his wish. Sort of. Dorian stood up to see what had to be the largest Qunari in all of Thedas manning the desk. Each of his horns was the size of Dorian’s torso, and as if all of that weren’t frightening enough, even if you _weren’t_ the sworn enemy of his people, he had an eye-patch. An honest to shitting goodness eye-patch.

Dorian _wanted_ the books, though. The cookbook was bordering on a matter of survival. He was pretty sure a librarian wouldn’t start something in his own library. And Dorian had a right to be here. He was legally in the country through asylum, and libraries were public spaces.

With all of these thoughts to bolster him, he strode up to the desk with every spare drop of confidence he could muster. He set the books on the reference counter gently and said, “I’d like to create an account, please.”

The Qunari smiled broadly. “Yeah, of course. You must be new to the neighborhood. I’m Bull.”

Dorian faltered. Other than Lace, the last person who’d smiled at him without being amused at his expense had been Felix. “Oh, ah. Yes. New. I am new, that is.”

“Great, well, getting a card is easy, I just need you to fill out one of these,” he pulled a form out of a nearby drawer and set it on the desk, “and show me proof of address, and these books can be yours and all yours for three weeks. Six, if you renew.”

Dorian took a pen from the small tray of them on the counter, all of them varying shades of pink, from pastel to aggressive neon. He filled in the form, and handed over his lease. Bull scanned over them, then said, “Looks good, let me just get it in our system. It’s going to take a minute, if you want to grab a hot coffee or tea. Free to patrons. And pretty much anyone who walks in off the street, but we try and keep that a secret.”

Dorian wasn’t certain if Bull was just trying to get Dorian out of his space, or if it was a genuine offer, but either way, tea sounded nice. He went and steeped a cup, and then returned, enjoying the heat of it in his hands. Without looking up, Bull said, “Oh, the hibiscus, that’s my personal favorite, when I can drag myself away from the coffee pot.” 

Academically, Dorian knew that the Qunari sense of smell was heightened. He’d never really thought about what that meant. Cautiously, Dorian offered, “Chamomile is my favorite, but it makes me sleepy.”

“Yeah, it’s great as a bedtime drink, but a killer during the day.” He finished inputting the information and went to grab something from the printer. Presenting it with a flourish he said, “Your card, good sir.”

Dorian smiled at the silliness of it. He knew it was dumb to be so done in by someone treating him like he was a sentient, feeling being. That didn’t change how good it felt. He pushed the books forward a bit, and Bull used the card to get him checked out, tucking a receipt with the return date into the first book. He handed them and the card over to Dorian and said, “Hope to see you again soon, Dorian Aquila.”

Dorian almost frowned, still not used to the last name on the false papers Mae had gotten for him. They’d stuck with his first name, both because it was decently common, and because it was easy to forget you’d changed the name everyone had called you by for the better part of twenty-four years. He caught himself just in time and said, “Thanks for the tea,” like an idiot who didn’t know how to speak to other people.

Then, before he tried to have a conversation with this complete stranger, who was just being polite, Dorian took his books and fled to the safety of his apartment.

* * *

He came back to the library three weeks later to return the books and pick up new ones. The dwarf who’d been reading to the children the last time Dorian had been in was manning the front desk. He gave Dorian a nod and a smile when Dorian placed the books in the return drop. Dorian put a couple of coins into the bowl at the coffee station and made himself a strong green tea. 

He was trying to puzzle out another good beginner’s cookbook when the handsome, dark-skinned Ferelden that Dorian had _not_ been watching shelve books out of the corner of his eye said, “Looking for something in particular?”

“A cookbook for someone hopeless in the kitchen,” Dorian said, since, as it turned out, he had no instincts for making food.

The man laughed, and reached for something to the right of Dorian, plucking it from the shelf. “Here, this one actually allowed my friend Skinner to not set the kitchen on fire every time she did something, and trust me, that’s a genuine miracle.”

Dorian took the book. “Thank you. I’m Dorian.”

“I go by Stitches. Bull, my boss, gives all of us nicknames, and they just stick. I used to be in bookbinding, and can resew pretty much any spine, so, Stitches.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too. Anything else I can help you with?”

“I, ah, I don’t suppose you take any periodicals on magical theory?” Dorian braced himself for the fear or disgust most Fereldens displayed when he brought magic up.

Instead, Stitches said, “Not that you’d wanna read. It’s all Templar stuff on how to—”

“Yes,” Dorian said.

“But talk to Bull, he’s easy to find, just look for the guy with the big ass horns.”

“We met,” Dorian told him. “But. Well, in my experience, Qunari aren’t terribly fond of magic themselves.”

“You’re one for understatement. In general, that’s true, but time around my partner, Dalish, has mostly broken Bull of his fear. She refuses to acknowledge that she’s magic-capable, which helped him acclimate.”

Dorian wasn’t certain what his facial expression was, given that nearly all of what he was feeling was confusion. “Is Dalish…of the Dalish people?”

“Bull. Nickname,” Stitches said. “Point is, if it’s something you want and will read, he and Grim will figure out a way to get it in the budget and procure it.”

That seemed like a terribly inefficient way to run a public institution. Dorian thanked Stitches and went on his way, picking out a book on single-player card games, another on Orlesian enchanting, and one on the history of elven-human relations in southern Thedas. He headed up to the front, and noticed that once again, Bull had taken the desk at some point while Dorian had been inside. 

Dorian said, “Hello, Mr. Bull,” because being polite had never hurt anyone. Probably.

Bull smiled. “Just Bull. Hello again, Dorian.”

Dorian was glad Bull hadn’t reciprocated by calling him by his “last name.” He put his books on the counter and held out his card. Bull took it and started checking him out. “Stitches says you were looking for magical theory periodicals?”

“Oh.” Dorian felt betrayed, and then realized how amazingly irrational that was. “I was just asking. It’s of no import.”

“Mm. Do you know what Tal Vashoth means?”

Dorian knew a lot of things about the Qun as a people that he was willing to bet were rubbish. Instead of saying, “they’re those ox-men who go even crazier than the rest,” which seemed impolitic, he said, “I know it means they don’t follow the Qun.”

“Yes, although that describes Vashoth, as well. Tal Vashoth are those who have been exiled from the Qun, having once followed it. It is one thing never to know order and belonging in that singular way, and something entirely else to lose that.”

Quietly, Dorian said, “You’re Tal Vashoth.”

Bull’s smile was small, rueful. “I know what it means to be cut off from everything and everyone you know, even if, in the end, it was the decision you needed to make.”

“I—I had gone to university for magical theory. I’m. Well, not that it matters, but I’m rather good.” Dorian did his best to look blithely ironic.

Bull said, “It matters.”

Dorian took his books, said, “I—thanks,” and once again rushed off. This time, though, it was so he wouldn’t burst into tears publicly. That was the sort of thing one did in one’s own room, alone and cold and as safe as was possible.

* * *

Sometimes, Dorian took clients he knew he shouldn’t, the ones he could almost smell the desperation on. It was dangerous, but those kinds would pay a lot to get their hands on him, considerably more than most, and Dorian missed being able to have a meal from a restaurant, or a brand of soap nicer than whatever the store’s house brand was. He missed being able to buy a book for himself now and then, when he wanted to return to it over and over. He missed having elements of his personality define his space, and having more than a few outfits which had to be laundered almost constantly. Most of all, he missed not worrying about whether missing a night or two or three of work from illness or injury would end in homelessness.

So, yeah, occasionally, he gambled.

Which was how, at one point, he ended up pissing blood for three days, nursing a couple bruised ribs, with a whole host of welts on his back. He’d forced himself to shower afterward, flush the points of impact out, then he’d taken some anti-inflammatories, done his best to find a comfortable position to lie down in, and didn’t really leave bed other than to get a drink or pee for a full two days.

He didn’t regret it. The guy had paid him enough that it would cover rent all on its own, which meant he could use everything else he made for the month for any variety of things, and save a bit for an emergency.

Even so, it took another couple of days before Dorian was willing to even consider putting clothes on. By which time he realized his library books were three days overdue. Seeing as how the library was the one place here he’d been treated as a human being without having to prove the case, he was loathe to already get a reputation as someone who couldn’t be counted on to manage the simple act of returning items he’d borrowed on time.

He forced himself into his loosest clothing, and, even worse, into his coat, and set off to the library. The short distance seemed unreasonably long, the wind sharp, and by the time Dorian got there, his kidneys and ribs were both screaming at him. He got himself inside and stood there, breathing through the pain, wishing fruitlessly that he was better at healing magic for long enough that someone must have noticed, because suddenly Bull was in front of him, saying, “All right there, Dorian?”

Dorian’s fingers were clenched so tightly around the books, it was hard to get them moving. He held the books in front of him and said, “These are late, I owe a fee.”

“Okay. That’s not a huge deal, big guy.”

“I don’t think I’m above the rules,” Dorian told him, too tired and sore and in dread of the walk back to even prevaricate. 

Carefully, Bull took the books and asked, “Can I make you some tea?”

Terrified he’d cry if he opened his mouth, Dorian nodded. He dug in his coat pocket and held out a coin. Bull said, “This one’ll be on me. Just, come on into the reading nook. Take your coat off.”

Dorian managed to do so, but not without actively biting back a whine. Or two.

Bull asked, “Black tea okay? I’ve got a vanilla crème that I think is gonna make your whole day better.”

Dorian would have drunk the hot water straight from the pot, so he nodded. 

“Take anything in it? The honey’s from Stitches, his ma is a beekeeper.”

Dorian shook his head. “Plain, please.”

“A purist, I can get behind that.” Bull finished steeping the tea, and brought the mug to Dorian, who forced his hands not to shake through sheer force of will.

“Thank you.”

Softly, Bull said, “You’re moving like you’re hurt. Smell like it, too.”

Denying it would get him nowhere, so he said, “Consensual.”

Bull tilted his head. “Not that it’s any of my business, but…enthusiastic consent?”

Dorian closed his eyes and inhaled the steam off the tea. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else, really. At all.”

He wasn’t expecting capitulation, but Bull said, “Sure. Did you want some more books? Oh! I’d been waiting to tell you, we got an electronic subscription to the periodical you were interested in. I know it’s not as good as paper in a lot of ways, but if you have internet access, you can get to it through our portal. And if not, you’re always welcome to come camp out on one of our computers and read through. If there’s something you want to keep, copies are ten cents a page.”

Dorian ached with the desire to catch up on what he’d missed in the theory world, but not enough to sit down on welts that were at the apex of their bruising. Instead, he said, “Thank you, I look forward to that. If you could perhaps suggest another cookbook on cheap, quick meals? I also planned to look for something on Ferelden social customs, and maybe something on advanced chess play.”

“You play chess,” Bull said, sounding pleased.

“My skill is, at best, intermediary.” 

“We have a chess night, Thursday nights. You should come. No cover charge, rules for tea and coffee are the same as always.”

“I, ah, work nights.”

Bull said, “Keep it in mind, is all. It’s over by nine. I’m gonna go see if I can find some good recommendations for those requests.”

“Tell me what I owe, for the books.”

Something Dorian couldn’t read flickered over Bull’s face. All he said was, “Yeah, I’ll check ‘em in and let you know.”

Dorian took another sip of his tea, and mumbled, “thanks,” to Bull’s back.

* * *

Dorian didn’t allow himself to go to the library more than once every three weeks, for an exchange of books. Right now, everyone there was polite to him, even Krem, the soporati ex-pat. Bull, Rocky, and Stitches were actively friendly. And one time, another patron had “casually” knocked books out of Dorian’s hands while walking by, and Bull had “casually” removed said patron from the premises.

The library was the only place outside of his apartment where he was safe. And it was the only place at all where he could talk with others who would treat him with dignity. Dorian might not have always acknowledged how well he knew himself, that didn’t mean he wasn’t self-aware. If he gave himself an inch, he’d go a mile. He’d be at the library every day, soaking up what kindness there was to be had, making a nuisance of himself until someone—probably Krem—politely explained to him that they all had jobs to do, and their job wasn’t to entertain Dorian.

Or, even worse, he’d give in to his own desire to brush a hand over either of the forearms Bull always had bared, or accomplish some kind of touch, any, that wasn’t either transactional, or violent, or both.

So once every three weeks. Enough to give him something to look forward to, not enough to sink into addiction. It was very practical, if Dorian did say so himself. Less practical was his tendency to buy cans of tuna so he could leave them on the fire escape for the alley cats who would allow him a pet or two before scampering off. Nobody could be practical all the time.

He called Felix every week. He would have done it more, only, an hour a week was the allotment of minutes he could afford just then. He called every week and let Felix talk about what he was reading, the latest court scandal that had no real weight to it, anything that was distracting. He called every week, listening to Felix cough more, struggle to breathe more, until it was Dorian who needed to hold the conversation, Dorian who told Felix about his misadventures in cooking, and the cats, and even the hot Qunari at the library.

Dorian knew it was coming, of course, he’d known even before leaving that Felix was fading. All the same, the day Gereon picked up and said, despite all their differences, “I’m sorry, Dorian,” Dorian went out _looking_ for the kind of client he usually only pursued for money.

He just wanted something painful enough that he wouldn’t have to think, wouldn’t have to feel anything other than the physical pain. Before going out, he did himself up the way he used to for balls, events of great import. Nothing drove guys who wanted to knock a ‘Vint down a peg or seven wilder than Dorian in Utter Perfection Mode. He swigged one of the doses of magebane he kept on hand to make certain he _couldn’t_ fight back. Wanting to get the shit beaten out of him, and wanting to be deported back to a place where he no longer even had Felix, were just different enough for Dorian to be cognizant of the distance between them.

In Tevinter, he might have been able to call out some other altus, escalate things to a duel, and spend the night pulling on the Fade, battering even as he was being battered. He wasn’t in Tevinter. He’d made his choices. He’d left Felix, along with everything else.

He trolled his corner, waiting for the right kind of trouble. And when he spotted it, he put on a show.

* * *

When he regained consciousness, the johns were no longer present. Thankfully, the magebane had worn off enough that Dorian could get himself out of the ropes they’d left him in without dislocating anything. Or, well, dislocating anything more. He bit straight through his lip getting his clothes back on, feeling a sickening wave of relief that they hadn’t found the seam he’d put the money in.

Once he’d left the rented room, he used a wall in an alley to reset his shoulder, and puked bile and blood over his shoes. He croaked, “Gross.”

There was no telling how long it took him to reach his apartment. The sun was almost coming up by that time. Dorian dropped the key three times before he managed to let himself inside. Once he’d locked the door behind him, he slid down the wall.

Getting himself in the shower was probably a good idea. He should figure out exactly what kind of damage he’d taken. Something was still dripping down his legs, slow and warm. Probably cum, given how many of them there’d been, how many rounds they’d gone. Possibly blood, though. The belts they’d used had been heavy, and made with quality Ferelden leather. His stomach hurt, a deep, sore pulse, and he was so tired from the walk over. He’d just rest, for a little bit, then he’d get in the shower, drink some water, take pain medication, and get in bed.

* * *

Dorian dreamed? It was cold for it to be a dream, “So c’ld,” he mumbled, the shivering making it hard to actually say the words. His tongue tasted salty. 

Right, the dream. Bull was in the dream. He said, “Yeah, I think you’ve got a fever.”

It was a dream, because they weren’t at the library, and Bull lived at the library. No. Wait. Bull…worked at the library. Right. But Dorian wasn’t at the library. He didn’t think. He was lying down, and that was inappropriate behavior at a library. Dorian wasn’t a barbarian.

Since this was a dream, he could tell Bull, “Y’r arms,” and inject as much admiration as possible. They were very good arms. Bull was made up of good parts. Even the eye thing was annoyingly sexy. And the nice thing. “Why so nice?” Dorian pouted. It wasn’t sporting on Bull’s part, not at all.

Bull looked away from him at something else and spoke, but Dorian was too tired to pay attention to what he was saying, despite the fact that he was currently asleep. Weird. Dream-Bull was still distracted, so Dorian reached out to touch his arm.

And screamed, as that slight shift in motion made his stomach and lower back rip open and light on fire. There was noise, because dream-nightmare-whatever-Bull was still talking, maybe even to Dorian. Nothing mattered but the pain. Dorian heaved from it, and the resulting pain of that overloaded everything, left nothing but blackness.

* * *

Things came in flashes. At least, Dorian thought the flashes were real. The Bull-from-before had said something about a fever, which meant delirium was possible. There was a flash of noise, loud and shrill. A flash of too-bright lights, and the sickening feeling of motion. The prick of a needle, the burn of an injection. A scent too sterile to describe, and the steady beep of a monitor.

The touch of ice to his lips was enough to rouse him to where his eyes opened. The beeps picked up, although not dramatically. Standing next to him was a woman he did not recognize. She had dark, wavy hair pinned back, and eyes that, although much lighter than the hair, matched. Catching his gaze, she said, “I’m Josie, Lace’s wife. She and the librarian guy, Bull, have been making sure there’s someone with you.”

Dorian was having a hard time focusing. Most of his body felt disconnected in a way that most likely meant drugs. Outside of elfroot, he wasn’t terribly used to pharmacological intervention, but he knew that was how Fereldens were treated. He managed to form a, “Thank you,” although it sounded nothing like himself.

She slipped him another piece of ice. “Don’t fall asleep again before you swallow, k? Lace will be rather displeased if I accidentally choke one of her favorite clients to death right inside a hospital.”

Dorian got stuck on the “favorite client” part. To him, Lace had always seemed to just be competently and cheerfully doing her job. It was not that he hadn’t appreciated it; he just assumed that was her normal demeanor. It kept him occupied long enough that he swallowed, then sleep crested over him again.

* * *

The next time he woke, or at least what he believed to be the next time, Dorian was both more cognizant, and in more pain. There was a dwarf in scrubs reading the numbers on his monitor. She looked over and said, “Hi there. Ms. Montilyet mentioned you’d woken but you’ve been out for another eighteen hours. That’s normal at your stage in the healing process. I’m Dr. Chant, the trauma surgeon. Friend of Krem’s, though, which is how I ended up on your case, seeing as how I wasn’t on call at the time, so call me Dagna.”

Dorian forced out, “Honored.” It was more a movement of his lips than anything, but she must have understood, because she smiled. She also plucked a cup from the side of the bed and held the straw in it to his lips. 

He sipped carefully and pulled away. “Thank you.”

She nodded. “Want me to give you some details, or let you go back to sleep?”

He forcefully ignored the pull of exhaustion still prowling right behind his eyelids. “Details, please.”

“First, do you know when you were attacked?”

He thought about explaining that it hadn’t been an attack. It didn’t seem important enough. Rather, he said, “Tuesday night.”

“As I suspected. You were found Wednesday, early evening. There was rectal tearing, nascent peritonitis, severe bruising and swelling of the entire front torso, two cracked ribs, welts over a range of areas, thirteen of them beginning to show signs of infection, tearing of the lining of the throat, and what appeared to be a shoulder dislocation that had been messily reset. You were running a fever of 102 and severely dehydrated.” 

At his slow blink, she continued, “We went in and laparoscopically cleaned up the damage to the intestines, flushed out and dressed all the surface wounds, and you’ve been on IV antibiotics and fluids for about seventy-two hours at this point. Your temperature is still slightly elevated, but another twenty-four hours should see that back to normal. In the meantime, we need to see if you can start taking more fluids orally, and come up with a plan for recovery once we’ve released you.”

Getting up to his third floor apartment and taking care of himself was too much to think about just then. Instead he asked, “payment plan?”

She shook her head. “Lace is filing it as a hate crime, as an asylum-seeker, you’ll be covered.”

Dorian frowned. “Wasn’t. Hate crime. Crime at all.”

Dagna tilted her head. “I think, if you take a moment to consider it, it really was.”

* * *

The next day, Bull visited. Dorian was miraculously awake at the time, watching someone on a Ferelden cooking show butcher a northern dish so incredibly, Dorian almost wondered if it came back around to tasting good.

He came with a bouquet of pansies the color of a good cabernet, and petunias an equally deep shade of pink. “Heard you might be awake.”

“Come in, please,” Dorian said, flicking off the television. “I understand I have you to thank for receiving timely medical treatment.”

Bull was putting the flowers on the windowsill, fussing an unnecessary amount. “About that. We’re not really supposed to use patrons addresses for anything other than mailings, so if we could keep it between the two of us that I found you through our systems—”

“Of course,” Dorian cut him off. “I’m not going to turn you in for…well, I’m actually not sure what you were doing, but you took me to the hospital, so it seems rather petty to complain.”

“You, uh. You were late. Returning your books. You always come in no later than Wednesday afternoon, and the only time you’ve been late was when you were hurt so I—I meant to just bring you some tea, see if you wanted someone to talk to. But there was blood on the ground, outside your door.”

Of course. Dorian probably owed the landlord money for biohazard cleanup. He filed that problem away for later. “That was kind.”

“You could use some kindness.” It wasn’t a question, but there wasn’t pity in the statement either, just certainty.

Dorian looked away, focusing on the flowers. “I do hate to bother you further, but the hospital is unwilling to release me on my own recognizance, seeming to feel that I’m incapable of following basic directions. I was thinking, perhaps, that you could tell them you would check in on me in the evenings, and see if that gets them to move on the issue. You wouldn’t have to actually check, of course, I’m not trying to impose—”

“Wow.”

Dorian felt himself flush in his fucking teeth. Bull said, “Krem wasn’t kidding when he said mages back home had shitty lives for all their power, huh?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but I didn’t risk my life leaving, to go to a place where everyone believes me to be the lowest life form to exist, because things were ideal.” With that, Dorian forced himself to meet Bull’s gaze.

“Nah, Krem figured that was because you don’t seem to much notice women exist, and that’s something of a problem for your lot, from what he says.”

“That was not unrelated to the whole of the decision.”

Bull was watching him too thoughtfully for Dorian’s comfort. Dorian had nearly broken and begun to fidget when Bull said, “I’ll bail you out of here if, and only if, there’s a friend you can stay with, or you’re willing to stay with me or one of my crew.”

Dorian blinked. “Pardon me?”

“Your apartment is three flights up with no elevator, and even if that weren’t true, the hospital doesn’t just keep people for funsies. If they’re worried about you being able to take care of yourself, there’s a reason. I’m not going to lie to the hospital to allow you to self-harm by neglect, even if that’s your first choice. But I’ll help you get somewhere safe, or, alternatively, find you somewhere safe.”

“Why—” Dorian had to force himself not to tense up, even through the meds that helped keep him loose. “Why are you doing this? What do you want out of it?”

Bull shrugged. “I like the sound of your laughter.”

“My—what?”

“You know, when you find something amusing, and—”  
“Yes, I know what laughter is. I am saying that cannot be all you want.”

Bull tilted his head, those incredible horns slanting diagonally. “What do you think I want?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian said simply. “And that’s the problem. It’s not that I’m unwilling to pay. I simply need to know that I am capable. It might have escaped your notice that I am not in the best of circumstances, currently.”

“If I said my price for staying with me was to help me keep up some correspondence and have dinner with me every night, would you insist that wasn’t actually what I wanted? Or would you believe me when I say that would truly be more than worth it?”

Dorian looked down at the plain hospital blanket. He didn’t trust that was all Bull wanted. But he also wasn’t certain what his options were. He missed Felix, missed having someone to talk his worst ideas over with, and be presented with a calm outside perspective. Missed his friend. “All right. I’m rather good at correspondence.”

“I believe that about you.”

* * *

Bull’s house was one in a row of others, solid brick and not much to look at from the outside. Most of Ferelden architecture was sturdy, weathered, and thoroughly unimaginative. The door, though, was painted a bright sky blue, with white cottage shutters gracing the plain windows.

Inside was…not what Dorian expected. For one thing, the ceiling was entirely vaulted, and had a row of skylights he’d not noticed from the outside, making the space seem more sweeping, even as there were a number of things that allowed it to be cozy. Next to the door was a wooden coat tree, lovingly polished and warmly stained. On the other side of the door, a massive sofa in a “u” shape defined a small living area, with a wood-burning fireplace surrounded by bookshelves that looked to be of the same make as the coat tree.

Directly behind the living area was a “u” shaped kitchen, with dark butcher block counters, and a couple of bar stools behind the peninsula. The walls were all a muted shade of pinkish-white, while the upper and lower cabinets in the kitchen were the color of a good pink lemonade. It should have been horrifying instead of charming. Dorian was charmed.

There was art and pictures and pieces of personality everywhere, but without giving the feeling of being cluttered. Bull said, “My room and the guest room are down that hall.”

He guided Dorian, who was shaky, but on his feet, down a hall directly in front of them, to where two bedrooms shared a jack-and-jill bath. The guestroom housed a double bed, with a quilt that appeared home-made, a nightstand that looked as though it was old and had been refurbished at some point, a small closet with a pocket door, and a window with a padded seat. It was the same white-pink of the main area, with the quilt and the pad in the window being made from a variety of burgundy-to-magenta-to-pastel quilting squares. 

The bathroom was the fanciest room in the house, with a dark teak double vanity topped in warm white marble, matching the floor, and the Bull-sized shower. The plumbing fixtures were in a champagne bronze that added to the overall warmth, and there were clever towel hooks with pearlescent pink tulips as the hook. Bull said, “The floors heat, the control is next to the lighting panel.”

When Dorian cocked his head, Bull said, “Got _some_ northerner blood in us Qunari.”

Dorian made a doubtful face, because Bull was wearing a t-shirt and pants that barely made it to his calves, despite the weather being what Dorian could only consider bone-chilling. Bull laughed and showed Dorian his room, which was no larger than the guestroom, and almost identical, except that there were French doors instead of a window, which opened out to a small, fenced backyard.

Softly, Dorian said, “It’s a beautiful house.” He loved the lack of grandeur in it, something he would never have expected to find out about himself. 

Bull grinned. “It was a dump when I bought it, but affordable on a junior librarian’s salary, and not outside the city, which was about all that mattered to me. I taught myself a number of skills with books and online videos. Krem helped with basically every fabric element in the house. He was raised by a tailor and has talent like you wouldn’t believe. Grim’s a wunderkind at finding bargains on everything. Skinner, friend of Stitches partner, she’s amazing at woodwork, and I managed to survive her tutelage. The tricky stuff, like plumbing and electrics, that was all done last, when I got my first promotion.”

Dorian wondered what that felt like, to have something that was so clearly and unquestionably yours, something that fit to your parameters and kept you safe all at once. If he’d had something like that, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to let anyone in, least of all a practical stranger. “Thank you.”

Bull glanced at him, blinking. Dorian said, “For…” He shook his head and just said, “Thank you,” again.

Without making light of it, Bull said, “You’re welcome. I’m thinking meds, water, and bed?”

Dorian’s fucking _teeth_ ached. “Good thoughts, I like all these thoughts. They are good.” Evidently, he was also exhausted.

“Mm, go get in bed, I’ll bring the meds and water to you.”

He wished he felt like he had something new to say, but he didn’t, so he just repeated, “Thank you.”

* * *

According to the small clock on the nightstand, Dorian had slept over twelve hours. He had a vague recollection of being woken in the night, and was not in as much pain as twelve hours without medication would have ended in. Mostly, though, he had slept.

Medication or not, he was sore from stem to stern, and he took his time using the restroom, splashing his face with some water, combing his hair, and brushing his teeth. After that, he had to lie down again for another hour, before making it out to the main area. 

On the kitchen peninsula was a plate of breakfast pastries, plastic wrap keeping them fresh, and a note in bold handwriting that said, “At work, call number below if you need anything. These are from my favorite bakery. Don’t forget to take your meds.”

The signature was a drawing of two horns. Dorian laughed, and immediately regretted it when his ribs exploded inside his chest. Still, the pleasure of simple mirth warmed him considerably. There was a glass left by the sink ,on a piece of paper that said, “Dorian’s glass.”

He filled it with water and took his antibiotic, then made his way slowly through a pastry. After which he needed to lie down again. Much of the day went that way, with him getting up for a drink, to take medicine, eat something, or relieve himself, and sleeping. At dusk, he awoke and heard Bull shuffling about. 

Dorian made his way into the main area and asked, “Work all right?”

“Aside from this one regular I’d like to gore, yeah.” Bull’s smile was easygoing.

“I could set them on fire for you. Little quid pro quo.” 

Bull looked over at him and then laughed. “So you do have a sense of humor.”

Dorian seated himself at the peninsula. “It can be a bit dark. And, ah, Fereldens have some preconceived notions about my kind to begin with.”

“And Qunari have none?” Bull raised an eyebrow.

“You have been kind to me since our first meeting. I have no value to you except perhaps in one area, and you’ve shown no interest in that type of exchange. Perhaps the Qunari do, I would imagine so. It appears, however, that you do not.”

“Yeah, well. I had a bunch of preconceived notions about Tal-Vashoth before becoming one. Seemed like a reasonable time to reassess my prejudices.” He tilted his head slightly. “How is it that you didn’t have preconceived notions about the Qunari?”

Dorian felt his cheeks redden. “Oh, ah. I did, rather. Some of them more flattering than others, but I was entirely certain you planned to drag me out of the library by my hair, and make it clear that I was not welcome back, that first time.”

Bull’s eye had a softer look than Dorian would have credited that garnering. He asked, “And the more flattering ones?”

Dorian looked down at the wood countertop, feeling as if he himself had been lit on fire. “Flattering, but a little on the objectifying side.”

“Huh,” Bull said, and then asked, “Any thoughts on dinner?”

* * *

As Dorian gained the ability to stay awake for longer periods of time, and be slightly more active, he worked steadily on correspondence to trade journals Bull was seeking to publish in, as well as doing his best to effect small favors for Bull, such as laundering the linens, dusting the shelves, or even cooking the simple dinners he’d learned from those first few cookbooks. Any one of these things was a big enough endeavor for him, at the moment, that it took all day, and required a number of rest periods in between. Still, it was something.

He was dialing back the pain medication, and halfway through the antibiotics. Dagna had required that he return for a checkup once the antibiotics were finished, and if she was pleased with what she saw, he’d be allowed to go home. Dorian knew he was supposed to be looking forward to that, so he told himself, quite forcefully, that he was.

If the thought filled him with dread that he neither acknowledged nor shared, that was nobody’s business outside his own.

It wasn’t just that Bull’s house was properly insulated, boasted a fireplace, and never ran out of hot water mid-shower, although those were certainly selling points. Or even that Bull’s guest bed and sofa were both quality pieces, with thick, comfortable cushioning. It was perhaps, a bit, the preponderance of books in the house, on handmade shelves, stuck in random nooks and crannies, left strewn about.

Mostly it was Bull. The way he told dramatic stories about his work day, and brought home books he thought Dorian would like. The way he patiently taught Dorian to bake molasses ginger cookies. Dorian even felt calmer hearing his snores right before drifting off to sleep. It was at least in part companionship. But it was also that Dorian truly enjoyed Bull.

Logically, he understood that going back to his place didn’t mean giving up their friendship. He just had to keep reminding himself that Bull did seem to appreciate his company in turn. Dorian was often able to make Bull laugh with offhand sarcasm, and the two of them were good at brainstorming campaigns upon publishing firms.

It was simply that he was used to being discarded at a moment’s notice. Again, rationally, Dorian was aware that had historically been a function of him becoming an inconvenience to someone, and he was already _quite_ the inconvenience to Bull, but, well, it seemed that trauma was not entirely undone by the voice of reason arguing against it.

Instead, Dorian did what he’d always done when there was something coming that he could not avert: he ignored it with all his might.

* * *

A week before he was due to go in for his check-up, Dorian had to appear in court, having been subpoenaed as a witness in the state’s criminal trial. The state’s attorney was a calm, confident Ferelden named Cullen Rutherford, who’d spent several hours walking Dorian through how his testimony would go, and how opposing counsel might come at him. Lace gave him a ride from Bull’s, and sat by him throughout the entire experience, and Dagna was there as a medical witness to his injuries. 

He hadn’t told Bull. Mostly because he’d still been very busy ignoring the fact that it was going to happen as much as possible. And when not actively ignoring it, telling himself he didn’t care about the outcome.

The defense had done a combination of the things Cullen had thought they might. They’d worked together on strategies in response. The practice hadn’t really made it easier to sit through the insinuations of being a mage who traded in blood magics, someone so foul he was an anathema even to his own, and watching the disdain or fear or just plain hatred on the faces of much of the jury. It hadn’t made it any easier to hold his head high while he answered, “Yes,” to the question, “Did these men hire you to perform a service which was agreed upon for a fair price?”

Cullen had explained to him that one couldn’t actually legally agree to an amount of damage that could kill a person, any more than one could consent to being killed, in large part because there was no way to ascertain the consent of the deceased. Dorian could see the sense in that, but still felt that if there had been a crime, it was only in order of magnitude. When he told Lace this, she asked, “Isn’t everything by orders of magnitude?” 

She’d taken him home after his testimony, as he was not required to stay for anything else, and had no interest in doing so. He’d done his best to establish some kind of normal rhythm, but in between getting inside the house and making his way to the kitchen to start planning dinner, the stress of the day hit, and with it, a lot of what he’d been keeping neatly boxed up and filed away.

Instead of making dinner, he sat on Bull’s floor and, for the first time since getting himself safely out of Tevinter and away from his father’s reach, sobbed. He let himself feel the fear of not being certain what he was going to do next, the pain of missing Felix, the loneliness of living in a place where his nationality marked him as vicious and only good for being put down. He’d stopped crying by the time Bull came home, but he hadn’t moved.

Bull saw him immediately, but rather than making a production, he closed the door quietly behind him, sat on the floor with Dorian, and said, “How about we order in Navarran? Sound good?”

Dorian couldn’t find it in himself to answer. Since he’d been living with Bull, he’d kept track of a good many things, in an attempt to have some idea of what he owed the other man in terms of monetary recompense. They’d never ordered in before, Dorian had gotten used to calculating meals based on the grocery receipts he’d find while helping Bull unpack the groceries.

Bull hadn’t taken a thing from him, which had allowed him to maintain rent, so that he would have somewhere to go after all this. Somewhere cold and damp and—

Dorian forced himself to shut down that train of thought. He said, “I’m sorry. I’m just tired, is all.”

“Would it be all right if I touched you? 

Aware that it might shatter him all the more, but wanting it too much to say no, Dorian nodded. Bull picked him up like he weighed little more than the average laundry basket and settled him on the couch, tucking throws around him, and lighting a fire. He wandered away for a moment, maybe more, time wasn’t really coming together for Dorian.

When he came back, he was no longer in his work clothing, and he said, “I ordered us some dinner. You like spicy, so I took some guesses, hopefully it’ll be all right.”

Dorian wasn’t particularly hungry, but he said, “Thank you.” 

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Bull said. “But I wouldn’t mind if we did. It wouldn’t make me think less of you.”

“I don’t want to go home,” Dorian told him, and it was true. He didn’t want to worry that he was at risk from those who should have loved him most the moment he let his guard down for a second. “But I wish…I wish there was somewhere where existing as myself wasn’t a crime in most everyone’s eyes.”

“If you could have anything, if reality and money and all the things we worry about were no object, what would you want?”

After a long moment, Dorian admitted, “I’ve never allowed myself to think about it.”

“Then answer something smaller. What kind of job would you like?”

That was easy enough. Dorian waved his hand in a gesture of uselessness. “I wanted to be a professor of magical theory at the Academy.”

Bull nodded, as if this weren’t a ridiculous thing to bring up. “Were you interested in a family? Or is it a bachelor’s life for Ser Aquila?”

Dorian’s breath caught and he said, “Pavus. My name is Dorian Pavus. I just—I would like someone who knows me to know that.”

Bull stilled for a moment, then asked, “The alias a safety measure?” 

Dorian nodded. “In answer to your question, though, I had thought, perhaps, I might have a partner. And that we could discuss familial decisions, make them together.”

“And what’s something that’s not magic or reading that you really like to do?”

“Ah, swim. In warm water, not these abominations Fereldens consider lakes.”

Bull laughed. “You know they have heated pools here, right?”

“I understand such things are in fitness centers, which require membership. My financial priorities have been elsewhere these past months of settling in.”

“Mm,” Bull frowned. “Wait, did you actually try to swim in one of those lakes?”

Dorian looked away. He’d known better, he had, but he’d just wanted a treat and the lakes were free. He’d learned that lesson quickly. “I survived.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to wonder if there’s anything you _couldn’t_ survive.”

Dorian’s gaze flew back to Bull, because if there was one thing Dorian wouldn’t have expected Bull to see in him, it probably would have been resilience, but Bull wasn’t joking. There wasn’t a trace of amusement anywhere in his features.

Bull’s doorbell rang, breaking the moment, and Bull got up to pay the delivery person, and then brought the bag over to the sofa. He rustled around in it for a few moments before handing Dorian a container and a fork. “Start with that and see what you think.”

Despite not feeling much pull to eat, Dorian took a bite, and made a surprised sound of pleasure at the hot-sweet burst of flavor. “Oh. That’s delicious.”

Bull smiled. It was a variation on his pleased-with-himself smile, quieter than his usual brash one. “Glad you like it.”

Dorian chewed another bite slowly before admitting, “I had to testify in the criminal trial against my—assailants, I suppose, today. It has me out of sorts.”

“I—I would imagine. Why didn’t you say? I would’ve made sure to be there.”

Dorian shook his head. “Lace was, and the State had very competent, thorough counsel. Nothing untoward happened.”

“Dorian, I might have it better here than you do, but it’s not like Qun are exactly turning up under every rock here, either. Trust me when I say I know how prejudice feels, and I’ve seen how it can play out in the courtroom. I was falsely accused of no less than three crimes in the first year I lived here. Even if nothing ‘untoward’ did happen, that had to have been stressful as fuck.”

“I told them they could hit me. I—I even kind of wanted it, that night. I’d gotten word of a friend’s death. My closest friend. Only friend, really. And I figured, men love to beat on the too-pretty Tevinter mage, it’s how I make most of my income. I thought I’d charge a bit more, let them get a bit more rough than usual. I go home and sleep for a few days afterward, they get to feel like big men, everyone wins.”

“You know what they did wasn’t acceptable, right?”

“I…” Dorian made a gesture of helplessness. “I’ve no idea what I think. But it’s not my opinion that matters, it’s that of the Ferelden justice system, and it will decide as it does. My part in that is over. Now just to get myself to the hospital in a few days’ time, get a clean bill of health, and I shall be out of your hair.”

Bull sighed. “Can we maybe discuss that when we’re not both exhausted?”

“Discuss what?”

“The fact that I was hoping to convince you to pay me rent rather than your current landlord.”

Dorian wasn’t dumb, except for when he was. “Uh. What. No, wait, I mean. Why?”

“Because I’ve liked having you here. And you haven’t seemed miserable. I figured we could probably come to financial terms that would work for both of us. It was just an idea.”

“I’ve been on my best behavior,” Dorian pointed out.

“I’d kinda gotten that feeling. I’m willing to have a lease drawn up so you can’t be summarily evicted, if that’s what concerns you. The library has plenty of templates, and Krem’s a notary public.”

Dorian forced himself to say, “Shelter I can replace. Friendship is a much more significant task.”

“True. That’s true. Thing is, I’m pretty sure I like you for just who you are.”

Dorian thought of that day when he’d stepped into the water and known immediately that he couldn’t do it, couldn’t swim, no matter how badly he wanted to slice through the water, feel even ten minutes of freedom. He thought of that day, and realized he hadn’t learned his lesson at all. “I suppose it’d be nice to try.”

* * *

Dorian had a nightmare the night prior to his check up at the hospital. He woke to his own screams and the rueful thought that he was a bit surprised it had taken this long. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he went and got himself some water, and stood at the sink, looking at the moon out the window.

“All right?”

Dorian jumped a bit, not having heard him coming in. “How the hell does someone the size of a small mountain range move that quietly?”

“He trains as special forces,” Bull said softly.

Dorian’s gaze flew to him. “Oh.”

“Ever wonder why I was a refugee?”

“I’m naturally curious, that doesn’t make everything my business.”

Bull gave him a lopsided smile. “I deserted. Which the Qun do not take lightly.”

“Death penalty?”

“That or a type of re-education that amounts to emotional torture. Depends on whether they think the latter will succeed.”

“Ah. I…well, let us just say my father’s plans for me weren’t that far off from the latter.”

“Fought my way out. It was how I lost the eye. I had some old Rivaini contacts, they smuggled me to the Free Marches, where I was able to get to Ferelden and claim asylum. Spent the first six months here having reconstructive surgery to keep the rest of my face free from damage, and learning how to compensate for the loss of vision and depth perception.”

“That is a far more dramatic and interesting story than my dashing escape, which involved a merchant cart, only one costume, and no loss of any body parts.”

“It’s not a competition, you realize?”

“Clearly, you’ve never been to the Imperium.”

“I have, actually.”

Dorian blinked. “Ah, that is, what?”

“Special forces, Dorian. What is it you think we do?”

“Look extremely dashing in some type of uniform and move very silently?”

“Also true,” Bull conceded.

Dorian grinned. “In any case, you know then, that _everything_ is a matter of competition in the Imperium.”

“You’re not there anymore.”

Dorian started to speak, but Bull held his hand up. “I came out here to say I have them, too. Nightmares. Mine are prosaic, memories, of course. We don’t connect to the Fade, so I don’t have to concern myself that I’m facing demons. But memories are their own type of demons, and if I had to guess, I’d guess they’re the type you’re dealing with now.”

“A desire demon _did_ offer me revenge, but for the most part, you are correct.”

Bull went still. “That’s by far the most flippant I’ve ever heard anyone be about turning away a demon.”

Dorian considered making another snarky comment about the Imperium, but ended up saying, “I don’t have much cause to show it here, if anything, I have good cause _not_ to show it, but I am very, very talented at magic.”

“What kind?”

“Trust me when I say you’re probably more comfortable not knowing, most people are.”

Bull stepped back slightly. “Blood?”

“No. _No._ ” Dorian knew he shouldn’t sound furious, but he was tired and even just the suggestion tore at him. “What I do doesn’t harm the living, or at least not the living I’m not actively fighting and have the intent to harm. It’s not corrupted in any way, people just often find it creepy.”

“Try me, then.”

Dorian sighed. “Necromancy. I can manipulate objects and elements that once held life.”

“Huh. Yeah, okay, kinda creepy, but Krem has often informed me eye-patches are as well, so not sure I can judge.”

“That’s really rather indelicate of Krem.”

“Please, please let him know that you find him indelicate, he’ll appreciate that.”

Dorian laughed. Bull smiled. “I—I came out here because I thought, maybe.” He made a frustrated noise. “I miss having someone to cuddle with for a bit after I have nightmares, I thought maybe you would, too. That was all, I just meant to offer that.”

The only person who had cuddled Dorian through fear or upset in his life was his childhood nanny, the elven slave whose blood his father—Dorian cut the thought off before it morphed into panic or nausea or both. “Couldn’t hurt, I suppose?”

Bull huffed. “That’s the spirit, Pavus.”

* * *

Dorian passed Dagna’s inspection, and was released upon his own recognizance with the instruction, “Don’t be careless with yourself that way.”

Dorian thanked her for her care. Bull took him back to his apartment, where Grim, Dalish, and Stitches were waiting to help out with packing and taking everything back to Bull’s. Dorian thought about telling them they had _drastically_ overestimated the amount of his worldly possessions, but instead just let them in.

He was packed and gone within an hour, leaving his key and a banknote for the last of his rent on the counter. Once they were out of the building, Grim asked, “Lunch is your treat, right, boss?”

“That new place,” Dalish says. “The one with the fried buns.”

Nobody contradicted her, so they all drove to a small restaurant a little past the library, but not quite as far as Bull’s place. Once they were eating, Dorian said, “Wow, you weren’t lying about the fried buns.”

“I never lie about food,” Dalish said.

“Seems like a reasonable place to draw the line,” Dorian agreed. 

Stitches snorted. “Bull, you running chess tonight? Krem’s off, and you fucking know what happened the last time we let Rocky handle it.”

Grim took an illustratively long pull of beer. Dorian was going to have to get this story at some point, clearly. Bull said, “Yeah, I was gonna take care of it. Come with?” he asked Dorian. “Seriously, it’s fun. There are snacks. What’s not to like?”

“It’s been at least a year since I’ve actually played.”

“So, you need to brush up your skills?” Dalish asked, polishing off another bun.

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Stitches added.

“Same,” Bull piled on. Grim tapped the table with his beer.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Chess sounds lovely.”

* * *

Chess was actually, well, lovely. The crowd ranged from a few scraggly-looking university kids, who clearly planned their social calendars around what was free in town, to a retired female couple, with a handful of misfits in between. Dorian got a few mildly intrigued looks, but nothing hostile or even slightly aggressive.

Dorian got his ass handed to him by one of the old ladies, and then was seated with a striking red head, who struck him as somewhat predatory. He said, “I’m Dorian.”

“Yeah. The ‘Vint management around here seems to have taken up with.” She extended a hand. “Leliana. Sometimes I get Rocky drunk and ply him for gossip.”

“Does it really take going to such lengths to get gossip on this branch of the library?” Dorian asked.

“Not at all, but it’s considerably more fun that way.” She moved her piece.

Dorian laughed. “All right. What else do you know about me, then?”

She waved a hand. “Not much. They’re all crazy loyal to Bull. If he asked them not to talk about you, they’re not gonna say much.”

Dorian hadn’t been aware Bull had asked for that. It caused something warm to settle in the pit of his stomach. He moved a piece. “Not much to tell, I suppose, just your average deviant mage.”

“Mm,” she watched the board for a bit, then made a move. “No. Those stay in Tevinter.”

Dorian blinked at that. “You’ve been to the Imperium?”

“I’ve done ambassadorial duties, now and then.”

Dorian nodded. “They’re not so fond of my particular brand of deviance.”

“No, I would imagine anything that shows a genuine willingness to be one’s self despite the bonds of society’s strictures would terrify the magisterium.”

Dorian smiled, tasting bitterness on his tongue. “I didn’t leave because I was a hero. I left because I couldn’t stay.”

She tilted her head. “Pray tell: what’s the difference?”

* * *

Dorian found a rhythm again after that. He took Thursday nights off for chess, and Tuesday nights off because Tuesday was Bull’s weekday off, and that meant they could spend some time together. He used afternoons to clean the house, grocery shop, and cook meals, all things he did so that his share of the rent and utilities was lower, without him feeling like he was taking advantage.

The easing up on his finances made it so that he could be safer in choosing jobs, but there were still nights where he came home with marks that were going to stay for a few days, sore enough that all he wanted to do was sit on the floor of the shower until the water ran cold. He didn’t do that, because Bull was a morning shower-guy and Dorian tried not to be that kind of asshole as a roommate, but he often did take a hotter-than-advisable shower, drink a cup of chamomile-lavender tea, and crawl into bed with Bull, who had offered sanctuary in case of nightmares.

The first time he’d done it, he’d said honestly, “I, there wasn’t a nightmare,” and Bull had pulled him onto the bed, gotten him under the covers, and said, “the offer wasn’t contingent on a specific type of trauma, Dorian.”

He made his way steadily through the books Bull kept in the house, learning more about dragon anatomy than he’d known there was to know in the first place. He also was thereafter far more knowledgeable about Ferelden, Antivan, and Navarran weaponry and the history thereof than he had been. He read about basic carpentry, the best ways to grout a bathroom shower, and a random smattering of theatrical plays from throughout Thedas. This was to say: Bull’s tastes in reading were about as predictable as Dorian’s own.

Dorian found the book on power exchange play by accident. He didn’t go in Bull’s room when Bull wasn’t home, in fact, he didn’t go in there unless it was the dead of night and he needed someone big and horned and much scarier than any demon or client could possibly be to cling to.

Rather, he was reorganizing the closet in his room, as he’d finally managed to get himself a few non-working outfits for leaving the house, and stumbled on a box under the shoe rack he’d never noticed before. Probably because he’d not really looked.

It was a simple plastic storage container, and Dorian almost expected it to be empty. He did not expect what appeared to be roughly fifteen yards of neatly coiled high-end hemp rope, dyed a color that Dorian mentally dubbed, “regurgitated rose.” Or the variety of reading material on healthy dominance and submission play.

He considered the contents for a long moment, then placed the lid back on the box, returned it to where he had found it, and went back to otherwise reworking the closet to his needs.

* * *

Dorian was helping clean up after chess night about a week later, when Leliana said, “Hey, Dorian, have a moment?”

She was standing by the checkout desk, drinking coffee like it wasn’t after nine in the evening, and considering the flier on book club offerings as though it might offer her the secrets of life. He glanced over at Grim, who was running the event that night, and Grim made an, “I got this” gesture at him, so Dorian said, “Sure.”

They went and sat on the chairs in the reading section. She said, “Would I be wrong in thinking you’d be open to hearing a decent job offer?”

Cautiously, Dorian said, “No, not wrong. Just. I thought you worked for the government.”

“I did, past tense. And then I got out and started a consulting firm. Unlike the government, I don’t have to hire citizens, naturalized or otherwise. I can hire whoever the hell I want.”

“Consulting in what?”

“Intelligence and counterintelligence methodology.”

“And you want to hire me for what reason again?”

“Because last Thursday when I showed up you were unironically reading a history of surnaming conventions in Antiva.”

Dorian gave himself a second to think that one through. “I am not certain what that has to do with anything.”

“You like knowledge, for knowledge’s sake. It’s a good quality in a research analyst. Not to mention that when you play chess, you don’t just play the board, you play the person you’re competing with. You like books, but you understand the world outside of them. That is a more rare combination of traits than I think you realize.”

“I don’t have any background in Intelligence work.”

“I’ve got myself, my project manager, a systems manager, and two game planners for that. You can learn what you really need in terms of that as you go. If I was worried, I wouldn’t be making the offer.”

“I haven’t hit a year yet, but based on an average week, I make about fifty prior to taxes right now. I’m not willing to take less than that.” He was, actually, for work that engaged him and gave him something to be excited about, but he hadn’t completely forgotten how to represent his own interests in the marketplace.

“You have a degree, yes?”

“Advanced.”

“Starting for an analyst is generally around eighty. I’m still new enough that I can only do seventy-five, which is part of what makes you attractive. Within a few years, though, I feel confident I can get you up to at least eighty, probably eighty-five. All Ferelden holidays are paid, ten days sick per year, and fifteen leave.”

“Where’s your office?” Dorian asked.

“Three blocks over. It’s how I ended up finding chess night.”

Walkable, then. “When would you be looking for me to start?”

“Next week too soon? We’re a casual office, unless we’ve got a meeting with a client, so don’t worry about a suit, just come in what you usually wear.”

“Seeing as how I don’t have to give notice, I think I can manage.”

“Give me your email, I’ll send you the address and important info. Office opens at eight, first person in makes coffee.” She held out her hand.

Dorian shook it.

* * *

At the end of his first week, most of which Dorian spent alternating between feeling like he was better at the job than he’d thought he’d be, and worrying that he was about to be fired on the spot, Bull said, “Celebration dinner, c’mon.”

They walked to a place Dorian had never even noticed, although he had been on the street before. There was a sign, it was just so plain he’d assumed it was for some kind of a doctor, perhaps a lawyer or an accountant. Inside was not much more grand. There were a total of six two-person tables. It was clear the restaurant did most of their business from take-out.

The six tables were all of sturdy wood, though, and the chairs at them more like well-padded benches. There was soft lighting, a nice array of art of different mediums gracing the walls, and though there was nothing flashy about it, the place felt comfortable.

It was empty, but they’d also come a bit early for the end of the work week. No sooner had they chosen one of the tables and sat down did a Vashoth, with curved horns that were probably a third of the length of Bull’s, and white hair that was tied in a neat top-knot, come out of a door and say, “Been long enough.”

Bull stood and pulled the other Qun into a hug. “Kardet, meet Dorian. Dorian, this is Kardet. They own this place, and also keep an eye out on the few of us here in the city.”

Dorian stood and offered his hand. “Dorian Aquila, an honor.”

Kardet shook it, looking him up and down. After a moment, they said, “Huh. Like spicy?”

Dorian tried not to sound too desperate when he said, “Yes. Yes, please.”

Kardet snorted and started back toward the door they’d come from. Bull said, “Two maraas-lok, we’re celebrating.”

“One maraas-lok, one wine, I’ve got a few varietals out of the High Reaches.” They rolled their eyes. “Killing patrons on their first visit is bad for business.”

When they were reseated, Dorian admitted, “I’ve never had Qun cuisine before.”

“I’m not entirely certain you’ll like it, I understand it’s something of an acquired taste for those who didn’t grow up with it, but I…I wanted tonight to be something special.”

Dorian felt like he was missing something. All the same, “I’ve always liked trying new things. And I—ah, that is, it’s nice. That you felt you could bring me here.”

It never ceased to amaze Dorian how, despite the scars and the patch and his sheer size, Bull could make his smiles the softest, warmest things in the world. Bull said, “So, we finally got that grant finished up and sent in today.”

“Oh, you mean the day it was due?” Dorian teased.

“Nobody turns in grant proposals before the day they’re due, if you do that, clearly you don’t really need the grant, you’ve got things well in hand.”

“Pretty sure there’s a fallacy in that logic somewhere.”

“But you don’t know where it is, so you can’t prove it,” Bull said pointedly, as if this, in turn, proved his argument.

Dorian laughed. A waiter, also Vashoth, but, if size was any indication, an adolescent, came out and gave them their drinks. Bull asked him about school and what sports he was playing, keeping him until Kardet hollered for him from the back.

Dorian smelled the wine. It had been a while since he’d had anything that wasn’t essentially glorified vinegar. Just the smell made him think of a too-warm sun. He took a sip and let himself merely indulge for a bit.

“You gonna toast with me, or should I leave you two alone?” Bull asked.

Dorian opened his eyes to see Bull waiting with his tumbler up. Dorian held up his glass as well. “What are we toasting?”

Bull thought for a moment. “New things.”

“New things,” Dorian repeated flatly.

“New jobs, new foods, new communities…new things.”

Dorian considered, and then clinked his glass. “New things.”

* * *

Dorian thought it wasn’t so much to ask for that his life have a cleaner narrative arc. After all, he had escaped a possibly-life threatening situation, taken refuge in a fairly hostile clime, lost the single friend he’d had throughout his life, and still managed—not without help, but all the same—to end up with safe and comfortable shelter, and a job which both challenged him and made him proud of what he did. He’d even made new friends. And while it wasn’t as if he could replace Felix—even had he wanted to, which he most certainly did not—but all told, Dorian had what amounted to a rather nice life that he had clawed his way into. He believed he should get to enjoy it.

But that was hard when he couldn’t sleep. He could fall asleep easily enough: he was exhausted. Staying asleep was another matter. It seemed that while struggling to survive or heal, Dorian’s mind could let things lie. Now that his waking hours were filled with the normal sorts of anxieties, when he shut his eyes, he was certain to wake in terror.

Sleeping with Bull worked. Dorian was a grown man, though, who wasn’t going to climb into his roommate’s bed every night of the week, no matter how attractive the thought was. Instead he took more books out of the library, went into the office earlier, did anything to pass the nights without letting on quite how much trouble he was having. 

It worked for over a month. He was getting one solid night of sleep a week, since he’d permit himself to bed down with Bull that much, and no more. And he’d honed his ability to forego sleep through school and his time fleeing the Imperium. 

Then he went to bed one night, still feeling shaky from how much coffee he’d had earlier in the day, and nauseated. He woke up around the usual time, but unlike normal, where he just waited for his heart to calm down a bit and sat up to read, this time he ran to the bathroom and made it just in time to be sick. Bull came in after a few minutes asking, “Everything all—no, obviously not.”

He left, and brought back a glass of water, then dampened a washcloth and set it on the back of Dorian’s neck. Dorian mumbled, “S’mething I ate.”

“No,” Bull said, and sighed. “Dorian, you ate like three pieces of rice at dinner. I’m pretty sure you’re giving yourself an ulcer from the coffee and the sleep dep, or maybe the anxiety that’s causing the sleep dep, I don’t even know, but. I’ve been trying not to push. Trying to let you take care of it your own way. You’re making yourself sick, though.”

Dorian took the glass and rinsed his mouth out several times, then closed the lid on the toilet and flushed. He sat back against the vanity, next to Bull, taking small sips. “I can’t sleep.”

“Stress?”

“Maybe. Nightmares, definitely.”

“I thought we—I thought you were coming to me when that happened.”

Dorian rested his forehead on his knees. “You’re an excellent friend and a stellar landlord, but neither of those requires you to be my keeper.”

“Has it occurred to you, ever, that someone might want to keep you?”

“Of course it has,” Dorian said, his _bones_ aching from how tired he felt, “but the time for childish dreams has long since passed.”

“Right,” Bull said, with the inflection of someone who did not agree with what had just been said even the tiniest sliver of a bit.

“Bull—”

“The problem I’m having here, is that I _am_ your landlord. And I don’t want you to feel like you might lose the safety of your home if you don’t want to do something I suggest. At the same time, watching you be miserable sucks nug balls, because I—because you are deeply worth keeping.”

Dorian twisted his upper body so as to look at Bull. “We might have different definitions of ‘worth,’ or ‘keeping,’ or the entire concept we’re discussing, but you’ve had every chance in the universe to take advantage of me being in a weaker position, and you never have. I trust you to continue having that sense of honor. It’s very clear that it’s a guiding tenet of your personality.”

Bull didn’t smile, exactly. The expression suffused his eyes, though. “Thanks, big guy.”

Dorian shrugged. “Hard-earned.”

“Then what would you say if I suggested we just sleep in my room for a while? If you get to a point where you think sleeping by yourself would be better or easier or you just plain want to, that’s always your right. Only, instead of the default being that we sleep in our separate rooms, the default is we sleep in mine.”

Dorian was worn down enough to say aloud, “I don’t trust good things, Bull. I’m _scared_ of them.”

“I know,” Bull said softly. “But you do scary things all the time. What’s one more, right?”

Dorian’s asked himself the same question a million and a half times. Eventually, he thought, “one more” would break him. He wasn’t certain what the alternative was, though. Giving up seemed like being broken, too. He forced a breath slowly out of his nose, sipped the last of the water, and said, “Yeah. What’s one more.”

* * *

Sleeping got easier. Dorian was still waking from nightmares every third or fourth night, but that was considerably better than every night, and with Bull there, Dorian could usually fall back asleep after a glass of water, or a couple of chapters of something dense.

He stopped going into the office at four in the morning, although he was usually in by eight or so. He preferred to be the one to make the coffee. Leliana had a tendency to use a beans to water ratio that only marginally created liquid; Govin, the project manager, trended more toward something that resembled dirt water; Rametta, the systems manager, had an impressive ability to make the office smell like burnt carbon no matter what she did; and neither Wes nor Flor, the game planners, had ever shown up first, so Dorian had no idea what their skills were like. 

Unless they were dealing with a last minute contract, or wrapping up a project, he was rarely out later than five, and Bull tended to work eleven to seven. He’d either go home and make something for dinner, if he was feeling industrious and they didn’t have any leftovers available, or he’d head to the library and hang out until Bull was off, when they’d go home and rustle something up, or order in.

He was at one of the computers one of those evenings, catching up on the magical periodicals he’d gotten behind on—the library now had three subscriptions, somehow—when Krem sat down at the empty station next to him. Dorian looked over. Krem, for the most part, was exceedingly civil around him. It was still clear Krem would be perfectly happy for him to fall off a cliff and disappear.

Dorian said, “Good evening.”

“I’m having this conversation with you because Bull’s my best friend and he’s evidently dumb about ‘Vints.”

Slowly, Dorian nodded. “All right.”

“At first, honestly, I thought you had one of them mage staff’s up your ass and melded to your spine, but you’re actually just super messed up as far as I can tell.”

Dorian raised a challenging eyebrow. “And you escaped the Imperium unharmed?”

Krem glared. After a moment, though, he acknowledged the point with a slight dip of his head. “Look. Bull, he—the Qun aren’t big on free will, decision making. It’s made him something of a fanatic regarding enthusiastic consent in all things.”

“I’d caught on.”

“Meaning,” Krem stressed, “he can’t ask you on a date while you pay him rent because he has power in that situation, which means that if you respond positively, he cannot know if it was due to implicit coercion or not.”

Dorian opened his mouth, then, after a second, shut it. 

“So if you are not interested, it’d be pretty decent of you to make that clear. And if you are, you should consider that you’re going to have to either find a new place to live, or make the first move.”

Quietly, Dorian said, “I don’t know that I’m in a place to make that decision yet.”

“Maybe not. But at least now you know there’s a decision to make.”

* * *

Before Dorian had sorted through what he wanted, and how to go about getting it, Felix’s birthday came around. He worked late, and then stayed at the office, not really working, simply unable to bear the thought of going home, when home, for all its benefits, was a place where nobody knew Felix.

When he opened the door, the smell of cake wafted out toward him. Bull wasn’t exactly a stress baker, but it wasn’t unusual, when he was feeling uneasy, for him to get out a mixing bowl. He looked up as Dorian came in and said, “Hey, got a project going?”

Dorian thought about simply nodding. It would be easier. Bull would let him hide in his room. Instead he said, “It was my best friend’s birthday today.”

Bull pulled a glass out of the cabinets and filled it with water, setting it on the peninsula. “Someone from home?”

Dorian dropped his bag and came to sit at the counter. “He was. He died.”

Ever so softly, Bull said, “Ah, the one you mentioned. I’m sorry.”

Dorian dug the fingers of one hand into his palm. Bull gently covered the hand and pried it open. “I want to suggest something, to help. But you’ve been through a lot, and if you think it might just hurt more, you can tell me that.”

Dorian looked at their hands. “Okay.”

“I want to tie you up.”

Dorian stiffened slightly, the memory of being bound to beds with johns’ belts, zipties, all matter of items, flashing through him.

Bull shook his head, almost as if he could see what Dorian was thinking. “You’d be clothed, you’d be able to say you wanted out at any time, and all that’s gonna happen while you’re tied is that I’m going to talk to you while finishing this cake, and then cuddle with you and run my fingers through your hair while it’s baking, and then I’m going to feed you cake. Then I’ll untie you, and we’ll stay up for as long as you need, and we’ll go to bed.”

Given that that all sounded incredibly harmless and not in the least bit sexual, Dorian had to ask, “Then why tie me?”

“Sometimes it gives people a sense of relief. They _can’t_ go anywhere, or do anything, so they might as well just let go of all the things that are buzzing under their skin. I don’t know if it will do that for you. I hope it will, and that’s why I’m offering, but I can’t know until we’ve tried.”

Dorian hesitated. “I stay clothed?” It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get naked with Bull—he did, despite some of the reservations that came with sex these days. It was that now was not the moment he wanted that.

Bull smiled. “You can put on a parka, if you want.” He shrugged. “More practically, you might be more comfortable if you were in lounging clothes, maybe a pair of sweats and a tee, but you really can wear whatever it is you want.”

Dorian took the glass of water with his free hand, polished it off, and said, “Okay, let’s try it.”

* * *

Dorian sat on the rug in front of the fireplace, watching Bull unravel the rope and set it aside, length by length. He’d done as suggested and changed into the kind of clothing he wore when he had no intentions of leaving the house. 

Bull told him, “I can explain what I’m doing as we go, or talk about my day, or listen to you talk, or we can be quiet, up to you.”

Not sure he wanted to be left to his thoughts just yet, Dorian said, “Talk to me. I don’t…doesn’t matter about what.”

“Sure,” Bull said. “Do me a favor and kneel up, hands crossed over your chest.”

Bull talked about rope. He talked about why this particular type was his preference in materials, and how he would only buy from certain dealers. He talked about when he’d first been learning and his ties had often either come apart at the worst moments, or had to be cut undone. He told Dorian about some of the basic knots he was using, why he was choosing the particular positions and ties in this instance.

He took his time with everything: drawing the rope through the bite, checking the tightness against the skin, tucking off the tie. He’d been very clear that Dorian was to speak up if there was a problem, and yet, all the same, every few minutes he asked, “All right there, Dorian?”

Somewhere between the third and the fourth check-in, things slid into place for Dorian. Or rather, they slid pleasantly out of focus, to where everything was in the touch of Bull’s hands, the constriction of the rope, the sense that inside this cocoon of pink hemp, he was safe and…free. Dorian tried turning that paradoxical thought over in his mind. It was too hard to hold onto, though.

When Bull asked the next time, Dorian said, “Mm,” and Bull laughed, said softly, “Good, you just stay right in that spot, kadan.”

Without any sense of time, Dorian had no idea how long it was before Bull finished, leaving him tightly tucked into a ball. It should have felt terrifying, defenseless. Instead, it felt as if the rope were a net, catching him after a long fall. Bull picked him up and settled him into the corner of the sofa, where he was unlikely to list to the side, and said, “I’m gonna go finish the cake, now. I’ll keep talking so you know how close I am.”

“I like your voice,” Dorian said, since it seemed like very important information just then.

Bull caressed his cheek once, and then went off to see to the cake. He told a story about the time Rocky had been in charge of getting a cake for a backyard party Stitches and Dalish had been throwing, and had instead decided to make one, “Which in theory, is a very nice thought, but all of Rocky’s patience gets used up dealing with kids, and worse, kids’ parents all day long, so baking isn’t really his strong suit.”

At some point the cake must have gone into the oven, because Bull came back to the couch and pulled Dorian into his side, checking some of the rope and asking, “Still feel everything?”

“Ten fingers and ten toes,” Dorian reported.

“All the rest of the stuff, too?”

“Yup.”

“’Kay,” Bull said, massaging at Dorian’s neck, scraping blunted claws over his scalp. 

Eyes closed, not even really thinking, Dorian said, “You could kiss me now, if you wanted, while I can’t run away if I get scared. Because I think I might get scared, but I don’t _want_ to be scared.”

“Dorian. Just to be clear, I want to kiss you more than I can ever remember wanting anything in my life. But not when you’re half out of your mind on endorphins, and sure as hell not because you want to try and force your way through it.”

Dorian let that settle over him. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Let’s see how you feel,” Bull said.

* * *

The cake was apple spice, which was one of Dorian’s favorites. Bull fed it to Dorian with his fingers, giving him small sips of milk between bites. Afterward, Bull said, “I’m gonna untie you now. You’ve been in this position for a while, no sudden moves, okay?”

They were silent as Bull undid the ties. It was a quicker process than putting them together, but it didn’t feel rushed. Bull carefully massaged and worked each limb and area as it came undone. When he was finished, he hovered as Dorian made his way to the bathroom, and the two of them brushed their teeth and tidied up for bed together.

Then Bull settled Dorian right atop him in bed, where he could run a hand up and down Dorian’s back, and tell him how beautifully he’d done. Dorian fell asleep to the rumble of Bull’s voice.

He woke up alone, to light streaming in the windows, and the clock by the bed showing that it was after ten. Dorian went to go get his phone to call Leliana and apologize profusely. When he found his phone, however, there was a note next to it in Bull’s handwriting. “Called in sick for you. Grim’s gonna take half my shift, be home a little after three. Try to be nice to yourself.”

Dorian traced the letters with his fingers for a while before putting on some coffee. He had more cake for breakfast, then spent some time in his room, looking at the places where the strain of the rope had left markings. There weren’t many, but what was there he liked, it felt like a picture fading in the sun.

When Bull got home, Dorian was on the couch, struggling through the Qun language book he’d been tackling for quite some time, and really not getting very far with. Bull stood just inside the door and said, “Hey, how’re you feeling?”

“Better,” Dorian said. “You were right, I needed to get out of my head for a bit.”

“I get that you might not be ready, but you know you can talk to me about him? Your friend?”

“When I’m ready,” Dorian agreed, the ache of Felix still too sharp to poke at. Then, before he lost his nerve, “Before that, though, you should kiss me.”

Bull blinked. “Oh. So that was—That’s a thing you’re really into?”

“Seeing as how you haven’t done it yet, I can’t be sure, but my instincts strongly insist it’s a thing I am _very_ into.”

“You’re saying you need me to kiss you for science?”

“Also the fate of the universe,” Dorian waved a hand. “Details.”

Bull laughed and walked toward the couch, settling down on it and pulling Dorian over to him, so as to have Dorian straddling him, in a position that meant Dorian was not pinned under or behind him. Then he leaned in, and pressed the tiniest, most chaste kiss to the corner of Dorian’s mouth. Only when Dorian laughed did he deepen it, as if to taste Dorian’s mirth.

Dorian wrapped his hands around Bull’s horns, and used his teeth a bit. Bull broke the kiss long enough to ask, “Universe gonna make it?”

“Odds are looking good,” Dorian breathed, and pulled him back in.

* * *

After their third session of making out like they were fifteen and had just discovered they had tongues, Dorian had his head resting in Bull’s lap, Bull reading to him from a mystery series they both enjoyed, when he spoke up, cutting off Bull mid-sentence. “I’d like to try rope again.”

Bull skipped a beat before asking, “Been thinking about that for a bit?”

“Since we did it the first time.”

“Okay. Can you tell me why?”

Dorian sat up. “Why?”

“You know, because you’re stressed and you want a release, or because you like the sensation of rope, or because you know if you do I’ll pay attention to you? Something else. Knowing what you want to get out of it helps me to decide how to approach it.”

Dorian mulled that over. “Well, definitely that last. The way you focus on me when you’re doing it is…heady. But also, all the marks have faded, and I liked them, they were pretty, made me feel.” Dorian looked away. “Made me feel like someone was waiting for me to come back to him.”

“Mind if I try something different this time, then? If you don’t like it, we switch back to rope, no problem, but I think you will. For this, though, you have to at least be shirtless.

Dorian, who’d been reading up on the subject of power exchange and its relationship to kink, said, “I don’t think I’m ready to be marked through pain. The rope has that edge of it, the way you do it, but not—I’m not ready to try beatings. I don’t know that I’m ever going to be open to that without—I just don’t know that that’s going to be my thing.”

“What I want to do is not in any way painful, it will not even have the faint pain of the rope. And if I were ever interested in trying impact with you, I would say that, and we’d have a conversation about it. No, what I want to do is not really kinky, except for that I get to make certain decisions, so there’s an element of power play in it. Normally, I’d be excruciatingly clear about what I want, and I will give you the choice to say no, before we start, but I really want to see the look in your eyes when you figure this particular activity out.”

Dorian thought about asking. If he asked, Bull would tell him. It was that surety that lead him not to ask, and instead say, “All right. Just my shirt?”

Bull smiled. “All I need. Well, that, and for you to lie down on the carpet there, back or chest, your choice.”

Dorian stripped off his shirt and laid down on his back as Bull went to his room and came back with a pencil case. Dorian said, “Maybe you could take your shirt off, too?”

Bull laughed and pulled his shirt over his head, throwing it onto the couch. It wasn’t anything new; Bull slept shirtless. The sheer breadth of him still made Dorian catch his breath.

From the pencil case, he took out a veritable rainbow of brush-tip markers, saying, “I haven’t got your fancy ‘Vint handwriting, so my pedestrian letters will have to do.”

Dorian frowned. “You’re going to write on me?”

“It’s a type of marking, isn’t it?”

Hard to argue with. “What are you writing?”

“I thought I’d start with ‘courageous’. How does that sound?”

Dorian looked at the ceiling and admitted, after a bit, “I’m not sure.”

“Not sure because you don’t believe it, or not sure because the idea of it being true makes you uncomfortable?”

Taking a breath through his nose, Dorian admitted, “The former, I suppose.”

“How about we make this deal: I tell you each word before I put it on there. You might disagree, but it’s not you choosing the words, it’s me, it’s how I feel, and you don’t get to tell me how I feel. So you can say, ‘I don’t want that word on me,’ or ‘Stop,’ but you can’t argue that I’m wrong in my word choices. Seem fair?”

Dorian sighed his most put-upon sigh. “I suppose.”

Bull chuckled for a moment, and then said, with all sincerity, “Or we can do rope. Whatever you’d like best.”

Dorian glanced at the wine-red marker in Bull’s hand. “Let’s—let’s try this.”

It was intensely different than the rope. There was nothing keeping Dorian there aside from his own choice to lie still, which could be excruciatingly hard when Bull said things like “kind,” and waited for Dorian’s nod of agreement, and inked the four letters carefully in an emerald green. 

Like the rope, however, it eventually slipped into something not quite in alignment with reality, where the only things that existed were the fibers underneath Dorian’s bare skin, the rumble of Bull’s words, the smooth slide of the marker over his flesh.

At some point Bull ran out of space on his front, and had Dorian roll over, to begin working on his back. While penning “curious” around the curve of Dorian’s left shoulder blade he said, “Your back muscles are beautiful. We’re gonna have to discuss massages,” and Dorian made some kind of incoherent noise, in part because he was too deep under to respond with something more coherent, and in part because he just wasn’t worried. Bull would explain why there needed to be discussion, and let him make the decision of whether it was something he wanted to do or not.

After a long, slow, slide of time, that also felt impossibly short, Bull said, “C’mon, big guy, get up, let’s go look at you in a mirror, yeah?”

Dorian grumbled, but he turned over and let Bull pull him to his feet, support him as the moved to the bathroom. Bull flipped the lights on, and there, in the reflection, was Dorian’s olive-gold Tevene skin, covered in a riot of colors, bright and dark. [In words that spoke of beauty, intelligence, loyalty, strength, and too many other qualities to take in all at once.](https://apudpir8.tumblr.com/post/631554187923259392/just-finished-this-illustration-for-arsenics) Dorian blinked. “Oh.”

He was never going to shower again. Then, he had a thought. “Can I do you next time?”

Bull leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Anytime you want.”

* * *

Sunday morning, while making overly complicated bagel sandwiches, Dorian asked, “Why wouldn’t I want a massage? Massages are nice.”

“As a point of interest, not everyone likes being touched, so that’s not a universal statement. In this case, though, I’m guessing you’ve never had a massage intended to actually release the stress from your muscles,” Bull said.

Carefully, Dorian said, “Slaves give massages in the Imperium, so I would imagine there are certain kinds that just aren’t given.”

“Yeah.” Bull grimaced. “I can see that.”

“The kind you’re talking about, I’m guessing, from context, it hurts?”

“A lot. Later, you feel amazing, but while it’s happening? Yeah, it hurts.”

Dorian finished off the sandwiches and slid one to Bull. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

Bull smiled. “Then let’s not do it.”

Dorian tilted his head. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

* * *

Dorian was terrible at playing pool. He now knew this, because Flor had insisted on a once-a-month happy hour at a dive bar near the office. Even Leliana had been dragged in. Flor never gave up on anything once she’d decided on it.

A few months in, after kicking his ass at a game of pool, Govin asked him, “You ever gonna bring your boyfriend around to these things?”

Dorian was glad they weren’t still playing; he thought he might have accidently tossed his cue. It wasn’t that Govin was being awkward or odd about it. Homosexuality here was simply a variation on relationship building. And not being completely stupid, Dorian understood he and Bull were dating. They went on dates: to dinners, parks, bookstores, even a concert one time. 

The term “boyfriend” hadn’t occurred to him, though. He’d never had one. Never thought he’d be allowed to have anything close.

Now that he thought about it, Rametta’s husband usually came, and Wes often showed up with his twin, who was also his roommate. Dorian should have realized he could ask Bull. Only, until Govin’s casual question, he hadn’t realized that, at all. “Yeah. He tends to work until seven, but he can probably get someone to cover the last couple of hours of his shift to make it next month.”

“Great. Hope he sucks at this as bad as you do,” Govin said, and began re-racking the balls. Dorian laughed.

* * *

The first time it happened, Dorian wasn’t even aware he was going to say anything. Bull made a comment about planting a kitchen window garden, and Dorian said, “Felix always swore I could kill anything green just by being in proximity to it.”

Bull was still for a moment. “Ah. Seems a bit harsh?”

Dorian found himself laughing. “Maybe. If it weren’t true.”

“That bad, huh?”

“That bad.”

“Well, good thing I’d be tending the garden. You can cook with it if you want, but that’s all the interaction you’re allowed to have.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

Bull shrugged. “Them’s the rules. I don’t make ‘em, I just enforce ‘em.”

“Pretty sure you just made them, literally, just now.”

“I don’t recall that being the case, no.”

“What, exactly, would this enforcement look like?”

Bull openly pondered. “Seems to me the punishment should fit the crime. You kill a plant, I have to kill you.”

Dorian frowned. “Feels drastic.”

“The Orlesian’s call it la petit mort.”

Dorian blinked. “An _orgasm_ is your idea of punishment? I hate to inform you, but I think there’s a chance you’ve been doing it wrong.”

Bull burst into laughter. “Not so much the orgasm, as the way I’d tease you until you’d _think_ you were dying.”

“I…I think I might need a demonstration.”

Bull stopped laughing, but his smile stayed, warm and easy. “Yeah?”

Dorian smiled back. It was a nervous thing, but real. “One should have all the facts of a given situation, is what I’m saying.”

“Sure. Let’s go to the bedroom, though, okay? I know kitchen sex seems all steamy and forbidden, but when you get into it, trust me, it’s mostly just uncomfortable. And I’m a hedonist.”

“Pretty sure that’s my role in this relationship,” Dorian said, getting up to follow Bull to the bedroom.

“No, you’re definitely the expensive trophy husband.”

Dorian snorted. “Yes, the pay for municipal librarians very much lends itself to trophy spouses.”

Bull closed the door behind them,and pulled Dorian to him, kissing him slowly, like there was no end goal, here. Lifting his lips, he asked, “If I tell you to keep your hands at your sides, what’s going to happen?”

“Not sure,” Dorian admitted.

“That was poorly phrased, let me re-ask: when I tell you that, does the idea make you want to please me, or make you want to make me _make_ you keep your hands at your sides?”

Dorian had always thought of himself as a fighter. He’d fought for every inch of himself he’d managed to salvage. He’d fought for the simple right to survive. When Bull asked the question, though, his instinct was, “The former.”

Dorian had a hard time reading the look Bull was giving him. It wasn’t exactly awe, it was more like…like he cherished Dorian. “All right. Let’s get you naked, kadan.”

“You’re going to get naked, too, yes?”

Bull grinned. “Seems only fair.”

“Truly.”

“I don’t always play fair, but I will, right now.”

“Gracious of you,” Dorian said, folding his clothing and setting it atop one of the nightstands.

Bull gave an unabashed sweep of his body. “That first day, when you walked into the library, all I could think about was how much trouble I always get into over the pretty ones.”

Dorian flushed, but also gave Bull a bit of smolder in his glance. He _knew_ he was pretty. It was one of the few things about himself he never doubted. Probably because it was one of the things he knew didn’t really matter. “You had no idea.”

Bull finished undressing. “That you weren’t going to be any trouble at all?”

Dorian laughed. Bull crowded into his space. “You think I’m joking.” He lifted Dorian up then, and Dorian instinctively wrapped his legs around Bull’s waist, catching his breath at the shot of arousal that being manhandled made race through him.

Bull kissed him for a bit before sitting down on the bed. “There are two rules: one, you don’t come until I say so, and two, if you don’t like something, anything, you tell me, immediately.”

Dorian thought about saying something regarding his aversion to rules, but once again noticed that the concept of pleasing Bull was far more enticing than being contrary for the sake of being contrary. “All right.”

Bull pushed him a bit so that he was lying back on the bed, and disentangled himself from Dorian. “Hands at your sides, stay there, I’ll be right back.”

Dorian ran his fingers over the comforter beneath them, listening to Bull clank about in the kitchen, keeping his breathing measured. Bull came back with a bottle of water, a glass of ice, a pair of scissors, and a condom. He paused in the doorway, apparently to appreciate the sight of Dorian naked in his bed.

Then he came and set the bottle and glass on the floor by the end of the bed, opened the condom package and cut the middle out, leaving just the ring. Dorian asked, “You realize that defeats the purpose, yes?”

“Does it?” Bull asked, and took hold of Dorian’s cock, to work the ring all the way down to its base. 

Dorian, having practically come off the bed at the sudden, unexpected attention to his cock, looked down and said, “Oh.”

Bull chuckled. “Oh, indeed.” Then he bent over, and closed his mouth around the head of Dorian’s cock.

Dorian fisted the sheets so tightly he was worried he might tear them. This wasn’t the first time he’d had his cock sucked. One or two of the guys he’d slept with in the Imperium hadn’t been as committed to the idea that they were straight as most. But it was definitely the first time he’d gotten it sucked by someone who really knew what he was doing. And someone who was interested in pleasing Dorian.

Bull was using one hand to fist the length of Dorian’s cock, his mouth still working at the sensitive head. Dorian made a sound that wasn’t particularly human, and Bull laughed around his cock. Dorian _whined._ All too soon he found himself saying, “Bull, I need—”

Too distracted by the pressing urge to come harder than he ever had in his life, Dorian didn’t even notice Bull lean back a bit and grab something from the floor, which was why he nearly lost his mind when Bull pressed the ice cube in his hand straight against Dorian’s balls. “Fasta vass!”

“Mm,” Bull murmured, amusement clear in the syllable, but not mockery. He mouthed over Dorian’s iliac crest, and when Dorian began shivering ever so slightly, Bull slipped what was left of the cube inside Dorian’s hole, occasioning another shout. Then he took Dorian slowly, slowly into his mouth, sucking all the way, the heat of his mouth an intense contrast with the cold of the ice, his hands, one warm, and one still cold, on Dorian’s hips.

The sensations were intense, on the edge of being overwhelming, but not quite. Dorian’s hands were still right by his side. Bull kept it up until Dorian was shaking from the effort of holding back, even the improvised cock ring not helping that much, and then once again used the ice to bring him back from the brink. Even expecting it, Dorian couldn’t keep his startled shout in.

“Koslun’s balls, you’re too gorgeous to be real,” Bull murmured. Dorian writhed under his attentions, and for the first time since he could remember, felt power in his own sensuality.

On the third go round, one of Bull’s fingers teased at the rim of Dorian’s hole in the wake of the ice. Dorian said, “Please, please,” arching toward the finger. He wasn’t even sure if he was human at that point, so much as a mass of nerves, perhaps some skin stretched over them.

“I’ve got you,” Bull assured him. Dorian felt Bull roll the condom-ring off, and Dorian shuddered, riding out the wave of need to let go. 

“Good, so good,” Bull said, which did not help at all. Then, “All right, kadan, you come when you’re ready.”

His mouth was back at the head of Dorian’s cock, one hand gripping the length of it tightly, the other hand slipping a finger in his ass and rubbing it gently, but persistently, over Dorian’s prostate. Dorian fought to hold off, to feel _everything_ , live in each breath. Bull did something with his tongue, and Dorian crashed over the edge, coming so hard it was a bit difficult to say if it was entirely pleasure or served with a side of pain. Not that he cared. It was brilliant, either way.

Coming back down, his heart slowing to a pace that was less likely to induce cardiac failure, his breath leveling out, he noticed Bull watching him while fisting himself. Their eyes caught and Bull said, “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Words still felt a little outside of Dorian’s sphere of abilities. Instead, he managed to flop around so that his head was on Bull’s thigh, and bat away Bull’s hand. Bull said, “Easy there, big guy, you can just watch this round.”

Dorian called up his haughtiest look, and while he had no doubt that it was ruined by the amount of sex-stupid he was at that moment, it got the idea across, because Bull held up his hands in surrender.

Instead of doing any of the fancy things Dorian had always imagined he’d do if he ever got his hands or mouth on Bull’s cock, Dorian spent his time exploring. Bull was most of the way there, that was clear, so he licked the length of it, getting a sense of the texture, sucked at the head, acclimating to its girth. Taking all of him was going to take some practice and effort. Dorian was certain he could, though.

For now, he used the connection between them in the moment, his desire, both hands and his mouth to bring about Bull’s orgasm, and then laid back, allowing himself to be painted in cum. Bull grabbed the water bottle and settled beside him in the aftermath, murmuring about how amazing Dorian was, and sharing sips back and forth.

Never having known quiet intimacy after making love, Dorian thought it might be the best part. It was hard to say. He’d have to keep doing it to properly know.

* * *

About a week later, Dorian got home from work one day and started putting together something for dinner. To his surprise, Bull got there less than an hour later. Dorian said, “Hey, aren’t you on till seven?”

“Krem covered, he knows what an important day this is.”

Dorian looked over. “Something Tal-Vashoth related? You should have told me.”

“Something you-and-me related.” Bull sat down at the peninsula and set a gift, terribly wrapped, and with a mildly-squashed, mismatched bow, on the counter.

“Ah,” Dorian said, not without a touch of panic. He racked his mind, but it hadn’t been a year since he’d come to live with Bull and it certainly hadn’t been a year since they’d begun having a romantic relationship.

“Open the gift, Dorian.”

Dorian came over and removed the bow, setting it aside. He found a seam, and ripped through the paper to find the first cookbook he’d ever taken out of the library. In fact, it seemed to be that exact cookbook. “Did you give me a gift that needs to be returned in three weeks’ time?”

Bull laughed. “We got the newest edition a month ago and took that one out of circulation. Usually we sell them, but I put the exorbitant amount we would charge for such a gem in the till.”

Tapping his finger on the cover, Dorian suddenly had a thought. He flipped to the back page, and there, sure enough, was the stamp for today’s date, a year ago. “The first time I came into the library.”

Bull reached out and tapped him on the nose. Dorian said, “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“It’s in the computers. I looked it up when we first got together.”

Dorian traced the letters on the cover of the book. “Yeah?”

“I was playing for keeps here, Pavus.”

Leaning over the counter, Dorian kissed Bull and said, “I’m playing to be kept.”

With that, he went back to making dinner.


End file.
